


the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad christmas party

by silkroe



Series: love to hate you [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Christmas Party, Explicit Language, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sort Of, Strip Tease, Swearing, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24821704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkroe/pseuds/silkroe
Summary: All it takes is ten rounds of shots and a failed strip tease.
Relationships: Jean Kirstein/Eren Yeager
Series: love to hate you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795963
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69





	the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad christmas party

**Author's Note:**

> The mini-sequel no one asked for but is something I wanted to write all the same! I definitely suggest reading love to hate you for context's sake, but this can also...sort of stand alone? I guess?
> 
> For a better reading experience, pretend like Reiner is his A Slap on Titan counterpart with slightly less brain damage. Jean and Eren think they're savage but their author can assure you they're not.

Parties aren’t typically Eren’s idea of a good time. Being social in _general_ isn’t the ideal way he’d spend his eve of Christmas Eve, to be brutally honest. He would much prefer hogging the couch at home in front of a cheesy seasonal movie, Zeke in the kitchen singing annoying carols as he constructs inventive gingerbread houses and Mikasa next to him knitting ugly matching Christmas sweaters for the three of them. Simple, homey, familiar.

So when Reiner sets his sights on Eren, hellbent on getting him to agree to come to his unaffiliated employee Christmas bash, Eren knows he isn’t going to be able to get out of it. Or have fun.

“Dude, come on. Just drop by for an hour! We’re getting a _shit ton_ of high-quality liquor. The foreign top shelf kind, not your average Sky. Bert even said he’d bring his bong, and Annie promised she’d share her weed. Maybe. Come _on,_ just let loose! You never go out with us,” he adds, like it’s some personal affront to him that Eren has never partied with his crew. And for good reason; while Eren may resemble a dropout hipster that wakes and bakes, the worst drug he’s ever done is the cigarette he’s currently smoking out back during his break. Trust Reiner to barge in and ruin the peace of it.

Eren settles himself against brick wall and takes a long drag, forcing Reiner to wait on his response. He resists the urge to blow smoke in his face because really, the dude’s just trying to be two parts nice guy and enthusiastic coworker. Though it escapes him that Reiner clearly can’t see how borderline pushy his attempt at being a bro is.

An unenthused sigh and flicked away cigarette later, Eren rolls off the wall and says, “Fine. An hour.”

He should have known better.

But to be fair, how was Eren supposed to know that when Reiner said he invited everyone, he really meant _everyone._ Not even five paces into Reiner’s off-campus apartment does he spot him: the object of his ire since orientation. On the far wall of the living space lounging on a ratty couch, he’s there—sandwiched between stone-faced Annie and tittering Floch sits Jean, attention rapt in a show of Bertolt weathering a gigantic hit from his bong like a champ. Reiner stops Eren mid-turnaround and pushes him bodily back inside. Eren has half a mind to pop him in the mouth but for civility’s sake he swallows his annoyance and allows himself to be all but dragged in deeper, uninspired Christmas decor mocking him as he passes through.

The apartment is of decent size, Eren concludes, as he makes a beeline for the kitchen in complete avoidance of what’s going on in the living room. Reiner hadn’t been lying when he said the booze would be impressive, and Eren is faced with a faux granite countertop armed with Grey Goose, Patrón Silver, some weird Japanese malt whiskey, even a bottle of everclear to keep things nice and college. Eren eyes it warily and heads for the vodka.

After fashioning himself a vodka sprite that tastes more like rubbing alcohol with a stingy dash of soda, Eren props himself on the counter. He’s early, by the look of it. Out of the fifteen servers that work at St. Maria’s, only six of them are here. Eren is all alone in the kitchen, and he feels as stupid as he probably looks. It doesn’t bother him that Jean is within view in the other room, he just doesn’t want to get roped into a situation that will end with him coughing over Bertolt’s bong, or so he tells himself. And anyway, he’s content to sit here sipping poison and texting Mikasa about how lame the party is going to be, just as he predicted, and that he wishes he was home. He pulls his phone out and begins to type one-handedly, the other busy nursing alcohol into his system.

**Me:**

just got here. 10/10 would rather have zeke ruining their eardrums rn

**Mikasa:**

You can always just leave. I can tell him to turn around and pick you back up.

**Me:**

tried that alr, one of my coworkers wont let me escape

**Mikasa:**

Tell him it’s a family emergency?

**Me:**

dont think thats gonna work w this one. n u know i suck at lying

**Mikasa:**

Well, just grin and bear it until it gets lively enough for you to slip away.

**Me:**

aye aye cappn

Well, easier said than done, because just as he’s slipping his phone back in his pocket, ominous footsteps approach and Eren looks up suddenly face to face with Jean motherfucking Kirstein, waltzing into the kitchen with a spring in his step until he recognizes who’s guarding the liquor.

A brief pause opens up, and Eren watches Jean rotate through several colorful imagined insults before he finally decides on, “I see Reiner invited the pity party! Too bad you won’t last even an hour trying to _actually_ have fun. Does apathy run in those ice-cold veins of yours, Yeager, or is it just the resting bitch face?”

Irritation roils hotly in Eren’s stomach, accelerated by the downed vodka no doubt. As level as his gaze, he tucks a lock of wayward brunet easily behind his ear as he says, “I’m going to laugh my ass off when no one is there to hold your hair back while you’re busy puking your guts out in exactly that amount of time. You look like you hold your liquor like an arthritic grandma holds a fucking pencil.”

Jean’s jaw noticeably clenches. Hazel eyes rake over Eren, sizing him up. “You couldn’t take me shot for shot even if you tried.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” Eren responds. It doesn’t take much effort to sound as bored as he knows he looks; he’s undergone too many shot contests with Mikasa to be afraid of one with Jean of all people, the fucking beanpole he is. It does wonders to Jean’s temper, and he visibly flares at his failure to instigate.

“All right, Yeager. Let’s see if you can put your money where your bitchy mouth is,” he grits as he stomps past Eren and makes a vicious lunge for the tequila. “Reiner, where are your shot glasses!”

 _“Woah,_ you’re doing shots?” Reiner bellows from the living room, smoke puffing from his mouth as he picks his head up from Bert’s bong. “Let’s fucking _go.”_

“Reiner. Location. Shot glasses.”

For whatever reason Reiner laughs at Jean for a good minute before informing him that they’re on top of the fridge, doesn’t Jean have eyes? Even Eren snorts because Jean has the audacity to act offended by someone who had, without a doubt, pregamed and is probably already crossed out of his mind. He shrugs at the icicles Jean glares at him.

“I don’t drink tequila,” Eren tells him helpfully as Jean reaches above the refrigerator. And it’s true, he doesn’t—not since the last time he’d invited Armin over to drink and they’d gotten so wasted on a bottle of shitty Hornitos that, in the throes of an especially agonizing hangover the next day after much dry heaving and aspirin, they both vowed never to drink it again. He’s not breaking a promise to Armin for a horse-faced attention-seeking imbecile.

Jean, of course, scoffs at the notion that Eren wouldn’t lower himself to drink the same liquor as him. “What, you wanna make this a fucking martini contest instead? Grow a pair.” He migrates to the kitchen table and sets two single shot glasses across from each other, along with the handle of Patrón.

“Please, if it’s you making the martinis we may as well just take shots of vodka.” That being said, he picks up the Grey Goose and joins Jean at the table at a lazy gait, watching as he winds Jean up and up with every parry that doesn’t go his way.

Okay. Maybe this party could turn out to be entertaining yet.

“Vodka? I knew you were as bitch made as they come.” Jean seems quite taken with calling Eren a bitch, and Eren hopes he doesn’t think he’s doing any real damage with that as his only arsenal. In any case, the attempted insult ricochets off Eren like a rubber bullet to iron armor.

“These bottles are the same proof,” Eren pours himself the first round and raises it in more of a jeer than a cheer, “you illiterate spoon.” To punctuate, he taps the shot glass on the table, eyes on Jean as he throws it back with the ease of a chronic alcoholic and swallows. Because he knows it’ll rile Jean, he opens his mouth wide and sticks his tongue out in a performance that emphasizes he is the one who took the first shot.

Eren knows Jean is the competitive type—inferiority complexes will do that to you, he supposes. So it’s no surprise to him when Jean pours and shoots two shots in rapid fire succession, and it’s almost admirable how he barely gave himself time to breathe in-between. But this is Jean, so Eren doesn’t rise to the bait and only knocks down another single dose of vodka.

“Arrogant prick,” Jean spits.

“Insufferable neckbeard,” Eren counters. “Speaking of which, do better.” He gestures to the fine close-cut hair gracing Jean’s jawline with his empty glass. “I mean, seriously, when was the last time you got laid with _that_ on your face?”

Veins sprout along Jean’s temple, and Eren isn’t above smirking at his petty victory.

Pleasant as a lollipop dipped in cyanide, their back-and-forth continues with a fair amount of lucidity until the eighth round. Eren doesn’t know the exact moment he begins to get blurry or who starts unraveling first, but suddenly there are more people crowding Reiner’s apartment, and they have all decided to take interest in the ridiculous Mexican standoff Eren and Jean are making a show of. It becomes a game of getting the other player to feel more burnt than the liquor scorching their throats.

“You look like you snort cocaine off bathroom sinks in backwater bars,” Jean asserts with a drawl. Reiner slaps Bertolt’s shoulder, shoulders shaking in laughter that agrees with Jean. At least getting drunk has branched his creativity from bitch lines.

It’s Eren’s turn, and he barely tastes or feels the alcohol as it goes down which is _definitely_ a red flag to pull a full stop sometime soon. He loves a good challenge as much as Jean, but he doesn’t want to be a stumbling mess by the time this is over. He would like to retain his capacity to request a rescue operation from his brother soon. Vaguely, he wonders if he’s reached his benchmark of an hour yet.

Slamming the glass back to the table, he gives Jean a scrutinizing once-over. “Your sweater looks like a self-portrait, you fucking assface.” He’s referring to the ugly woven Rudolph on Jean’s chest, of course. Ymir, who arrived late, cackles vigorously. She offers Eren a clap to the back for his efforts.

A twitch of hazel eyes. “Ymir’s already fucked more girls than you’ll ever in your life,” Jean slurs. Patrón Silver travels up and down, mirroring Ymir’s unapologetic nod.

“You got that right, Rudolph.”

“Shut it, carpet breath.”

Ymir huffs. “Oh _please,_ you do _not_ wanna go at it with me right now.” Eren sees her point; Jean is drunk and vulnerable, Ymir is high and here to impress Historia. The odds aren’t in Jean’s favor, and he’s at least conscious enough to realize that. He backs down without another word, refocusing on Eren as he takes what will be his last shot of the night before he needs to call it quits.

“What’s that, Yeager? Bitch got your tongue?” Jean is slumping into his hand, chin held up by a precarious feat of balance on the heel of his palm. He could fall over at any minute, the crazy bastard. And, strangely, Eren feels a selfless surge of empathy; as much as he doesn’t want to end up face down in Reiner’s toilet, he doesn’t want that fate to befall Jean either, disregarding Eren’s earlier quip that he hardly even remembers.

Eren taps the table twice with glass. Without thinking too much about it, he concedes, “I’m out.”

Cheers erupt for Jean around the table, and the dumbass is brimming with hazy pride as he takes the last shot, empty finality echoing on wood as he throws down the glass that nearly slips from his grip.

 _“Three cheers for Jean!”_ Led by Reiner.

_“Hear, hear!”_

In some inexplicable sense of hilarity, Eren finds himself awash in booze-fueled laughter. He lost, fair and square. Jean can have this round. When he opens his eyes again, he sees Jean gaping at him, but he rips his stare away before Eren recovers the capacity to process it.

There’s shuffling amongst the onlookers, some of them defect to the living room, and Eren hears shitty Christmas music begin to drift from there where people start to dance and sing along. He can’t quite seem to vacate his chair. Jean stays where he’s put, too, until Reiner makes a very interesting proposal.

“Jean, bro, you totally have to assert your dominance after a W like that,” he persuades, and Jean is so out of his mind that he actually considers it.

“’M listening-g.” Caught mid-hiccup.

“Do a strip tease!” Ymir suggests with a sly glint, and Reiner clicks finger guns at her as if the idea is worth its weight in gold. Eren has no clue why a lesbian would request a strip tease from a very straight-looking man, but his head is too full of vodka to question her further than a faraway sense of curiosity. And, to be honest, Eren wouldn’t mind a show right about now.

In his current state, Jean is in no position to say no. So he can do little else but cast a foggy look at Ymir, take a moment to process the request then slur, _“Bet.”_

He lurches from his seat, steadying himself flat-palmed against the table for a brief moment before he climbs the chair and then the table in a wild moment of improv and innovation. Even Annie looks almost impressed at his flare. But then again, Jean is only halfway in control of his own motor function, so instead of performing a slow and sensual revelation of private skin, he folds up and throws off his entire hideous Rudolph sweater in a few jerky motions before flinging it down hard at Eren, who catches it in a shock of surprise.

Bewilderment subsides as quickly as infatuation sets in. He barely registers the “Take _that,_ you prickly bastard” in the face of a figure that draws Eren’s eyes wide in a sickly revealing way he is very glad everyone else is too fucked up to assess.

Jean Kirstein is _hot._ And, okay, insults pertaining to his face aside, he has never looked bad. But this is the body of a man who gives a damn about the way he looks, and dear god does he look good. Every muscle is in proportion, every sinew ripples as Jean flexes at an evocative prompt from Ymir, egging him on. Eren almost thanks her for it.

He’s distantly aware of himself getting up, dodging about throngs of people dancing in the main room while he excuses himself to Reiner’s balcony. He needs a smoke just to have something to do, and _shit,_ he must’ve left his pack on the table when he’d taken it out to light up between shots. But the frosty night air is sobering, so he stays put in the dim realization that he will only deign to go back inside once he knows Jean’s shirt is back on. Cruel reality reminds him that he still has a sweater adorned with cartoon Rudolph locked in his fingers.

_All right, Eren. What the fuck._

Eren can admit he thought Jean was on the attractive side when he’d first been hired on as a server at St. Maria’s. But after getting to actually know the guy, after Jean showed his true colors, rather, he abandoned any and all prospect of flirtation. Not that Eren could flirt to save his life; it was more of a self-preserving decision to relinquish a future of would-be fantasies he could construct about Jean, and he had them all flown out the window months ago. At any rate, he still enjoyed their shallow unspoken pact to poke and prod and drive one another crazy whenever they had to share close proximity. But this…this opens the door to a new room Eren isn’t sure he wants to cross the threshold of.

Party sounds swell and fade as the non-hypothetical sliding door behind him glides open and closed. Eren refuses to turn around and, when a deep voice makes its presence known, he shuts his eyes tight, blacking out his view of the city skyline.

“You took…’m sweater…asshole,” Jean accuses, all but falling forward onto the railing of the balcony. Eren curses his own drunken self for that particular lapse in judgement.

“Yeah, I did, lightweight,” Eren says as casually as he can, holding the fabric between them like a peace offering. He keeps his gaze far away from Jean. His hand remains outstretched for a long moment before Jean realizes he can pick it up and put it back on, which he does, inside-out and backwards.

“’S fucking cold,” Jean says. Eren doesn’t know if he’s trying to mediate the stifling awkwardness of the moment or if he’s just acting as he pleases on base instinct. He assumes the latter.

“That it is.” It’s so flat and lame but Eren was in the middle of an existential crisis involving Jean and his pretty face and stupid abs, of which said perpetrator just interrupted. So, all things considered, it’s a rather decent response.

Jean says nothing for a full agonizing minute. Then, “You look good with your tongue out.”

The world shifts beneath Eren’s feet.

“You’re so fucking drunk,” Eren simplifies, because that’s all he has the ability to do in the seconds that follow. _You’ll forget about this when you wake up. Please forget about it._ He doesn’t know if he’s pleading to himself or Jean. He doesn’t believe it matters.

A breathy laugh rumbles from his side, and Eren chances a glance over, sees Jean puffing cold air as he stares out into the night. He tries and fails not to admire the sharp curve of his profiled jaw. “Whatever you say, Eren.” He produces a pack of Marlboros from his pocket, offers it over. “Left this, by the way.”

Eren suppresses the urge to look for any hidden meaning in the gesture, although Jean acting nice is about as commonplace as Eren making friends. Eren receives it gingerly into his hands but stops himself from freeing a stick, content to exist in the silence that surrounds them. They stand wrapped in the December breeze that doesn’t feel unbearably cold somehow until Jean is summoned back to the fray inside, something about beer pong. Eren convinces himself that the gentle nudge to his shoulder is a product of Jean’s fumbling inebriation, not a show of good humor. In the dead of night and the dusk of his own consciousness, Eren swears he is never going to another Christmas party ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> And so, my very first sequel for this little series! I hope you enjoyed, I have another dumb oneshot nearly finished and the last one in almost-draft stage. For some strange reason I just felt a strong urge to write a short roasting session with these two, and making them drink is my way of excusing how ooc the whole thing is.
> 
> In any case, thank you for reading! Stay safe and healthy, mwah


End file.
